Page 60 of Beneath a Tennessee Sky

Chapter Nineteen

Jack

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THE ROAR OF THE CROWD vibrates through my chest before I even step onstage. Fifteen thousand voices chanting my name—my name—in a sold-out Seattle arena. My hands shake as I adjust my in-ear monitor. My heart is kicking hard against my chest. I don’t think this will ever get old.

I’ve lost count of how many shows I’ve done. Ten? Fifteen? I honestly can’t remember the last couple of weeks. No amount of preparation could have prepared me for just how grueling this tour was going to be.

“Five minutes, Jack!” a stagehand yells over the noise.

Liz materializes beside me, her manicured fingers brushing imaginary lint off my jacket. “Remember—play to the cameras during ‘Blackwater.’ The label wants good footage for the tour documentary.”

I nod absently, rolling my shoulders under the stiff leather of this ridiculous outfit she picked. Once again, she’s dressed me in some designer bullshit that makes me look like a reject from a bad eighties hair band. The collar itches.

And it’s hotter than hell.

I know I’m going to be sweating after the first song once the lights turn on. Thank goodness I don’t have to do a bunch of dancing. Although, there is talk of it. I’m going to fight it tooth and nail.

“You’re thinking again.” Liz tsks, adjusting my lapels. “Just smile and play pretty. That’s what they paid for.”

The stage manager waves frantically. “Places!”

Liz squeezes my arm. “Break a leg, Jumping Jack.”

I grimace at the nickname but step into the darkness behind the curtain anyway.

I close my eyes and take a few seconds to just breathe. The setlist is burned into my brain. It is easier after the first few shows, but every time I step off stage, there’s a list of criticisms from Liz. I need to do this better. Don’t do this. Flirt more. Shake my ass more.

The second the spotlight hits, everything else falls away.

The sea of faces, the deafening screams, the way the entire front row sways is better than any drug. My fingers find the strings automatically, the opening chords of “Long Road Home” ringing out clear and strong.

The exhaustion falls away. I feed off the energy in the crowd. When there are thousands of people screaming your name, it’s impossible to feel tired.

Halfway through the set, I spot a group of women near the barricade, their hands outstretched, lips forming the words to every song. One catches my eye—blonde, tall, wearing my tour shirt with the sleeves ripped off. I wink at her during the guitar solo, and she actually swoons, her friend catching her with a squeal.

The rush is intoxicating.

I imagine Aiden’s face in the crowd, that smug bastard who used to shove me into lockers. Look at me now, asshole. The thought fuels the next song, my voice rougher, my playing more aggressive. The crowd eats it up.

When the final encore ends, my shirt is soaked through, my throat raw, my fingers aching. I don’t want it to stop. But I’m done. My body is ready to drop. I wave at the crowd and jog off stage.

Backstage is chaos—crew scrambling, fans screaming outside the green room, label execs patting me on the back with champagne flutes in hand.

I sit down on the couch, leaning back, eyes closed and my legs stretched out. One of the many assistants puts a cup of tea in my hand. It’s Aggie’s recipe, something I’ve insisted on having while on tour.

I take a sip, letting the hot liquid soothe my throat.

“Everyone out,” Liz calls out as she walks into the room.

She always does that. I hate it, but I’m also grateful for it. I need the quiet for a few precious moments.

“Great show,” she says. “Numbers are through the roof.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes. Come on, we need to go.”